Clearing up, and clearing out.
Railsford’s farewell evening in his house was not destined to be a peaceful one.
He had scarcely returned from the masters’ dinner, meditating a few final touches to his packing, when Sir Digby Oakshott, Baronet, waited upon him.
The baronet was evidently agitated; and more than that, his face was one-sided, and one of his eyes glowed with all the colours of the rainbow.
“Why, Oakshott,” said the master, “what is the matter? You have been fighting.”
“That’s not half of it,” said Dig excitedly. “I say, Marky—I mean Mr Railsford; please Herapath wants to see you. He’s in a bad way up-stairs. It’s that cad Felgate. He’s bashed us. He was in an awful wax about the dodge we played him over that sack, you know, and tried to pay us out the other day; but we kept him out. But he’s been waiting his chance ever since; and when I was out of the study this evening, he came in, and gave it hot to Herapath. When I got back, Arthur was about done, and then Felgate turned on me. If I’d been bigger, I could have got a stroke or two in at his face; but I couldn’t do it. I barked his shins though, and gave him one on the neck with my left. So he didn’t get it all his own way. But, I say, can’t you come up and see old Herapath? You haven’t got any raw beef-steaks about, have you? He’ll want a couple to set him right.”
Railsford hurried up-stairs.
Arthur was lying on his sofa, blinking up at the ceiling with his one open eye—an eloquent testimony both to his friend’s veracity and to the activity of his assailant.
“You see,” he began, almost before Railsford reached the patient, so anxious was he to excuse his battered appearance, “he caught me on the hop, Marky, when I never expected him, and gave me no time to square up to him. I could have made a better fight of it if he’d given me time between the rounds; but he didn’t.”
Railsford made no remark on the unequal conflict, but did what he could to assist the sufferer, and reduce his countenance to its normal dimensions.